Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

                  Row gently here,

                  My gondolier,

            So softly wake the tide,

                  That not an ear

                  On earth may hear,

            But hers to whom we glide.

Had Heaven but tongues to speak, as well

            As starry eyes to see,

Oh, think what tales ’t would have to tell

            Of wandering youths like me!

                  Now rest thee here,

                  My gondolier;

            Hush, hush, for up I go,

                  To climb yon light

                  Balcony’s height,

            While thou keep’st watch below.

Ah! did we take for Heaven above

            But half such pains as we

Take, day and night, for woman’s love,

          What Angels we should be.